by A J Allen
Goat’s Foot walked steadily on, looking neither to the left nor to the right of him, clutching the two coins tightly in his pocket in case they clinked together. It did not do to advertise that he was carrying loose coins in Jew Alley. Two thirds of the way down the Alley, with hardly a break in his stride, he ducked into a shop which proclaimed itself as “Lotzmann’s High Class Bakery”. As he expected, Abram Usov was serving behind the counter. Goat’s Foot waited, scowling as a fat Jewess in front of him berated the young man in a thick, almost unintelligible accent for selling stale bread. Seeing him waiting, the exile brushed the woman’s complaints aside and eventually she left, still complaining loudly, with two flat loaves tucked inside her shawl.
“Is Lotzmann in?” the peasant asked gruffly.
“He’s out the back, lunching with his family.”
“Good. Can we talk?”
Usov wiped his hands on his apron and nodded towards the street door. Goat’s Foot quietly closed the door and slid the bolt home. Turning, he held up two fingers. Usov reached down beneath the counter and brought up first one and then a second bottle of the fiery wood vodka, placing them well apart on the top of the counter so that they did not chink and betray him to the keen ear of his employer.
Goat’s Foot looked at them hungrily and licked his lips, but the young man kept his hands firmly clasped around their necks.
“So? Talk.”
“Captain Steklov has been drilling his men since Monday, taking them to the Highway and back,” Goat’s Foot told him in a hoarse whisper. “I’ve seen it myself on the way here. Full dress uniform, loaded rifles, the lot.”
“I know,” said Usov. “A party of officials sent by the Governor is expected to pay us a ‘surprise’ inspection.”
The irony of the statement was not lost on either of the two men.
“Wrong,” Goat’s Foot told him softly.
Usov looked at him for a moment then silently passed one of the two bottles across the counter. It disappeared quickly into one of the peasant’s pockets. Goat’s Foot waited to see if the second bottle would follow. When it didn’t he said:
“Instead of officials, you can expect a party of your people. Does the title ‘Petersburg Soviet’ mean anything to you?”
Usov’s eyes widened behind his spectacles. The second bottle swiftly crossed the counter and disappeared.
“Are you certain? How good is this information?”
Goat’s Foot’s eyes darted greedily around the loaves that remained unsold on the shelves. He pointed to the largest and Usov took it from the shelf and began quietly to wrap it in a sheet of newspaper.
“I had a carrier sleep on my floor last night. He was bringing some stuff up for the barracks and Nadnikov’s store. He said that all along the Highway your people are getting ready to give them a big reception. Red flags, biscuits, cakes; the lot. The Soviet’s name was on all of the banners. And Steklov’s soldiers are too well armed for a welcoming committee.”
“Did he say when they were expected to get here?”
“Apparently they’re about four or five days behind him.”
Usov frowned.
“What was he taking to the barracks?”
“Only blankets. Nothing else as far as I know.”
Reluctantly, Usov passed him the wrapped loaf. Goat’s Foot squeezed it with his fingers.
“Here,” he said, raising his voice. “The old bitch was right. This bread is stale.”
“So?”
“My news was fresh.”
“Well, it isn’t now, is it?” said Usov evenly.
With a look of disgust the peasant turned to leave. As he was reaching up to draw back the door bolt, Usov called out to him.
“Goat’s Foot! Did this carrier mention anyone else in the party?”
Shaking his head, Goat’s Foot drew back the door bolt.
“Are you certain?” Usov persisted, coming out from behind the counter. “He didn’t mention the name Trotsky, for instance?”
“Never heard of him,” Goat’s Foot said sourly as he stepped back out into the street.
Goat’s Foot didn’t breathe easily until he had left Jew Alley far behind him. It was not just the groups of alien figures that stared insolently at him as he passed by. There were other, hidden eyes. He prayed that Izorov’s informers would presume that he visited the bakery solely to buy the vodka that was manufactured clandestinely somewhere in the Quarter and was reputed to be the best to be had for over five hundred versts.
By the time he had reached the spot where he had left Chevanin, his good humour had returned. He refused to let Usov’s parsimony spoil his mood. It had still been a profitable morning. He had a rouble in his pocket, and the opportunity to find ten brothers for it from the barracks. He had gained two bottles of excellent liquor, simply by being first with a piece of news that, once the carrier started drinking again, would become common gossip by nightfall. There was a third bottle to come (albeit of inferior stock) after his stint at the Black Cock that evening, along with a hot meal and another thirty copecks. He had buried the Doctor’s bill, and he had a loaf of bread and sufficient nails with which to repair his leaking roof. All in all, it had been a very satisfactory day’s work.
Ripping a corner of the newspaper that wrapped the loaf, he tore off a piece of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. Despite its hardness, it still tasted good. The sesame seeds that dressed its crust reminded him how hungry he was. Looking up, he caught sight of the wooden fire tower that stood outlined against the overcast sky like a stubborn finger and remembered the idea that had come to him as he had talked with Dr. Tortsov’s assistant.
Well, why not? he thought. After all, it’s my lucky day.
The two bottles bumped encouragingly against his thighs as, still chewing the bread, he sauntered along the narrow side street, turning his new idea over in his mind. Its success, he recognised, depended almost entirely on the cooperation of the Hospital Administrator Modest Tolkach. In the distance, the bell of The Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary began to toll for the souls of the dead. Reaching the front of the hospital, he walked up the steps, pulled open one of the wide wooden doors and went inside.
Chapter Five
Wednesday 7th February 1907
Berezovo
Leaving the bank, Irena Kuibysheva made her way along the raised boardwalk towards the crossing point on Alexei Street. She held the sable collar of her cloak closed against the chill morning air as she mentally apportioned the hundred roubles she had withdrawn from her husband’s account. The payment, personally overseen with his customary formality by Fyodor Fyodorovich Izminsky, the bank’s owner and sole director, was the thirty-ninth in a series of fortnightly transactions of equal value. On a monthly allowance of two hundred roubles her husband Illya Kuibyshev, Berezovo’s wealthiest merchant, whose furs lined the cloaks of princes and lavishly draped the smooth shoulders of imperial mistresses, expected her to run the household, clothe herself, maintain their status within the town and entertain his guests in lavish style when he was in residence. Many of her fellow citizens would have been surprised at how frugally she chose to live in her husband’s absence in order to keep to this budget. Out of every hundred roubles she retained a minimum of fifteen roubles, folded within a silk pillowcase beneath her bed. These savings, which never appeared on the meticulous household accounts she showed her husband, had already grown to a useful sum which she privately thought of as her “travelling money”.
Irena winced as a gust of wintry air bit her cheek and felt grateful that the library, her next destination, was located on the same side of Alexei Street as the bank and therefore did not require her to risk a fall while crossing the town’s main thoroughfare. Despite her discomfort, and the knowledge that she was a quarter of an hour late for her assignation with the timber merchant Leonid Kavelin, she did not hurry. Her experience the previous year with the younger and irrepressibly impulsive Dobrolovsky had taught her the advantage of
the cautious advance over the headlong rush. It would do them both good, she reasoned, to wait. And Maslov always made sure that the Private Reading Room was kept well heated and comfortable for his special customers. Thus it was more the promise of the librarian’s genial hospitality than the anticipation of her latest liaison with her new beau that made her eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow as she crossed the threshold of the town library and set the small bell above its door tinkling. In answer to this fairy summons Maslov promptly appeared, and greeted her with a courteous bow.
The library was divided into three sections. The Public area, where the two of them were now standing, was the largest space and lined with four sets of shelves bearing aged reference books and a selection of dog-eared catalogues. In the spaces between these shelves were mounted placards bearing neatly pinned issues of the most recent issues of approved newspapers, displayed in the English fashion for the benefit of the working man. Positioned at right angles to the outer entrance so as not to be exposed to the sudden draughts from the street, the librarian’s desk commanded a view of this public area.
Behind the desk, partitioned by the free standing set of bookshelves upon which the librarian kept books awaiting collection by subscribers to the town’s lending library (subscription: ten roubles per annum), lay the second area, grandly named ‘The Stacks’. Here crude shelves sagged under the weight of past copies of newspapers and journals and unused wrapping materials. At one end of the Stacks stood a locked rolltop desk, the drawers and pigeon holes of which stored the library’s account ledgers and documents relating to the proceedings of the Drama Committee. A strategically placed mirror high on the wall at the other end of this hidden area enabled Maslov to work unobserved at this desk and at the same time keep an eye on the Public area. Below the mirror a second door leading out into Well Street served as the library’s delivery entrance.
The third area of the library – the Private Reading Room – was situated on the far side of the Public Area. Reserved for the personal use of the library’s most prestigious subscribers, it was a small room, lined with bookshelves, heated by a small discreet stove and furnished with a circular baize-covered reading table around which were arranged four chairs upholstered in faded green damask. It was towards this room that the librarian now waved Irena, his neatly plucked eyebrows raised in silent mime as if to say, “Voila! Your lover awaits you within.”
Unfastening the top button of her coat, Irena entered the room and immediately Kavelin rose to greet her. Unsmiling he snatched up her hand and, bowing slightly, raised it to his lips. The abrupt gesture irritated her, dissolving her feelings of mild relief that Leonid had, after all, waited for her. She felt disappointed by his too literal execution of the suggestion she had made at the casting session the previous Sunday that he should take up the French manner of greeting, and by his lack of initiative. Irena felt that he should at least have felt maddened enough by her late arrival to seize her in his arms and rain kisses upon her face so that she could protest at his dishonourable behaviour. Did she have to make all the running?
Pulling out one of the chairs, Kavelin motioned to her to sit beside him. Ignoring the invitation Irena took her place opposite him, noting as she did so the latest edition of the geographical magazine Vokrug sveta that lay open on the table between them. On its pages she saw a map of an unfamiliar coastal region.
“That looks interesting,” she said. “What is it about?”
“Alaska,” he told her, adding with a sigh, “or what used to be called Russian America, forty years ago. The author says that they export over a hundred thousand seal skins a year now, mostly to London.”
“A hundred thousand skins! We should never have sold it to the Americans.”
Kavelin shrugged philosophically.
“We could never have held on to it. Sooner or later the greedy British would have taken it from us, like they have taken all of Canada. Better to sell it to the Americans so that they can form a buffer between us and the British. Let them fight over the spoils and leave us alone.”
“Still, a hundred thousand skins! It’s a fortune.”
“And there is also oil from the whaling,” agreed Kavelin, picking up the journal, “and the thousands of tons of blubber… They got all that for only seven million dollars.”
Leaning across the table, Irena laid one hand on his arm.
“Leonid,” she said evenly, “I didn’t come here to listen to you talk about money, or blubber.”
Kavelin glanced down at her gloved hand on the sleeve of his jacket and then regarded her thoughtfully.
“Just why did you come here, Irena?”
He is annoyed by my lateness after all, she thought, and is waiting for me to apologise.
She looked around the small room, for a moment regretting the necessity of leaving its cosy warmth so soon after her arrival. Removing her hand from his arm, she rose to leave.
“Not for an argument,” she replied lightly. “My intention was not to annoy you, or to interfere with your important study of whale blubber.”
“No?”
“No, I thought you might be enough of a gentleman to escort me to the Hotel so that we could take a coffee together.”
“But we are so comfortable here,” he said with a small smile. “It is a pity that the librarian does not also provide a samovar for us.”
“A samovar? That will be the day!” said Irena, laughing. “Maslov would never let us drink anything so close to his precious volumes. Can you imagine what he would say if we even suggested it?”
“We would be barred for life,” agreed Kavelin and mimicked the librarian’s fussy habit of adjusting his pince-nez before delivering a homily. “Hot water and paper do not mix. That is why you should never read in the bath.”
Seeing that Irena was still standing, he held out his hand to her.
“I’m sorry for being so sharp with you. Please, Irena, sit down.”
Certain now that his good humour had returned, Irena stamped her foot in mock impatience.
“No! I really would like to go and have something to drink.”
“Very well!” said Kavelin, getting to his feet. “As always, your wish commands me.”
Retrieving his overcoat from the peg beside the door, he said casually, “Why don’t we ask Fyodor Gregorivich to serve us our refreshments in the mezzanine lounge? It would be far more comfortable than sitting on the hard seats in the public dining room, and we would not be exposed to so many prying eyes.”
“Oho!” cried Irena, as she helped him on with his coat. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea, do you? I know you men all too well. First of all, you get a woman up to the mezzanine floor and all by herself and then it is just a short trip upstairs to the bedrooms. Behave yourself, Leonid Sergeivich!”
Kavelin began to protest good naturedly, but she waved his words away.
“Just remember that what you call prying eyes,” she exclaimed theatrically, “are, in fact, the guardians of a woman’s honour!”
They were both laughing at this remark when the door leading to the Public Library area opened to reveal the disapproving countenance of Lidiya Pusnyena, wife of Serapion Pusnyen, general merchant of Berezovo.
“Good morning Leonid Sergeivich! Good morning Irena Alexandrovna! I suppose you know that your noise can be heard from the street. This is meant to be a quiet space.”
“Oh, good morning Lidiya Stepanovna,” Irena greeted her quickly. “I do apologise for being so cheerful but Leonid Sergeivich was just explaining to me the intricacies of the refining of whale blubber and it suddenly struck me as being all quite ridiculous!”
“And I can’t get her to understand how serious the Blubber Question is,” chipped in Kavelin.
Madame Pusnyena regarded them both suspiciously.
“Well, a little more consideration for other library users would be appreciated,” she chided them.
“Quite so,” agreed Kavelin.
There was a short pau
se as her remonstrance sank in. Buttoning his overcoat Kavelin inclined his head in a formal bow, and signalled their departure.
“We shall now both retire and leave you in sole possession of the room,” he announced. “Good day, Lidiya Stepanovna.”
As the door closed behind them Lidiya Pusnyena pursed her lips disapprovingly. It occurred to her that they appeared far, far too happy to have been innocently occupied.
* * *
In his small office on the ground floor of Berezovo’s jail house, Prison Director Dimitri Skyralenko’s head jerked up from the pages of the two-week-old newspaper he was reading. The shouting on the upper landing was growing louder. Above him Janinski’s threats and curses rose to a crescendo and were followed by the sound of a scuffle. Reluctantly he reached for his braided kepi and the lead weighted truncheon that hung beside it against the brown plaster wall. He regarded the use of violence with distaste but the thought that the fracas might be audible from Colonel Izorov’s office alarmed him more.
He left his office and made his way across the Reception area past the five cells on the ground floor. The occupants of the cells were invisible except for the row of hands that grasped the bars in the gratings of the thick cell doors. An angry shout came from the farthest cell.
“Get back to your beds!” he warned loudly, bringing his truncheon down against the panel of the nearest door.
Fearing injury, the hands withdrew.
Turning, he shouted up the steps.
“Get back to your cells, up there!”
Steeling himself for the forthcoming confrontation, he began to climb the steps, rattling his truncheon against the iron banisters as he went. Immediately the cries of the prisoners rose to greet him.
“Director! Director! Come quickly!”
“Your charges are being murdered in their cells!”